


Ten times you heard him sing

by haruokumura



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: M/M, Major Story Spoilers, Second person POV for Akechi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 19:17:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11111127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haruokumura/pseuds/haruokumura
Summary: There were ten times that Goro Akechi watched Akira Kurusu busk in Shibuya's underground walkway.





	Ten times you heard him sing

**Author's Note:**

> Just an idea I felt inspired by when I was on my way home and passed a busker on the street. Enjoy~

_The first time_ you heard him was on your way home.

You were passing through Shibuya’s underground walkway when he caught your eye.

Sitting on a crate in a corner strumming along on a rusty acoustic guitar, a cat curled up beneath his feet. His dark, empty eyes hidden by thick frames and messy black curls, the corners of his lips were straight, and his voice was raw and strained, but when he sang, it tugged at your heart. His voice told a story of a boy, a boy who was waiting, for someone or something, you didn’t know.

 _The second time,_ he sat by the same corner again, his cat by his feet and his guitar on his thighs.

You knew him now. By some trick of fate, he was picked out of the audience during your TV interview and soon enough, you became acquaintances. Still, you remained in the shadows, watched from a distance the way his eyes were downcast and how he wore his heart on his sleeve. Every now and then, he would smile when the clink of a coin bounced in his guitar case. He sang the same sad song, but this time, you realised, he was waiting for someone.

 _The third time_ you heard him, grey clouds suffocated the sky and the pitter patter outside matched the beating of your heart.

You watched silently, mesmerized by the way his fingers were slow and steady on the strings. You considered approaching him, maybe drop a coin or two in his guitar case, but instead you kept your distance. You liked being in the dark, liked the way he played with such raw feeling, as though no one watched him. You feared spoiling it if he knew you were watching, so you remained silent, blended in with the crowds while you made your way home and thought about who it was he was waiting for.

 _The fourth time_ you heard him play, you were more than acquaintances but not quite friends. 

He made your favourite coffee and you thought he looked good in an apron. You saw him more, made yourself at home in the cafe he lived in. You glanced at the door every time the bell chimed and your heart sunk when it was just another stranger. Funny, you thought, now you were the one waiting. And yet, you knew you would find him in the underground walkway, in that same corner, sitting on that cheap crate, with his cat curled up by his feet, holding that worn-out guitar, and that smoky voice that made your stomach whirl. His song told you that he finally found the one he was waiting for.

 _The fifth time,_ you kept walking. 

You knew now who he really was, a dangerous thief masquerading as a simple high school boy. You continued walking, tried to block out the melodic strum of his guitar, the rawness of his voice, and you felt your heart crack and your throat tighten, but you pressed on because your mind was made up. You would not stray from your path. And yet, you had to wonder, would the person behind his words ever know how he felt before you took his voice away?

 _The sixth time_ you heard him, your world stopped. 

You knew now who it was behind his poetry, but you wish you didn’t. You told yourself you were only doing this to gain his trust, but you didn’t expect things would turn out like this. You watched from a distance, your feet froze and you couldn’t tear your eyes away, even when your mind begged to go, to walk away and never look back. He sang about the taste of you, how he memorised every line of your face, every edge and curve of your body, how you came into his life and brought with you the sunshine and the rain. And the more you stayed, the more you listened, the more your heart cracked and bled through. You wondered if he saw you now, what would he say about the blood stain on your shirt.

 _The seventh time_ made you cry.

You hated him, hated fate, hated this cruel game forced upon you, but most of all, you hated yourself. You could not look at him without seeing the blood trailing down his forehead, with eyes so wide and hurting, asking why, why couldn’t things be different? And even in his death, he would sing, his voice a broken whisper that repeated over and over the words you dreaded most of all. _I love you. I love you. I love you._

There should have been an _eighth time._

You didn’t know why your eyes kept searching, as if you would see him sitting on that shabby crate, his cat by his feet, strumming that old guitar, and his voice that made you tremble and your heart skip a beat. He would sing about the boy he waited for, the one he found, the one he loved and in the end, the one who _killed_ him. The image flashed in your mind: the gun you held and pushed against his forehead so hard it left a bruise, and he looked at you with wide eyes, pleading for you to reconsider, but you gritted your teeth and pulled the trigger anyway. The memory made your chest tighten, your eyes burn, but you held it together because you convinced yourself over and over it didn’t matter, you weren’t the one he sang about.

 _The ninth time_ , you thought you were dreaming.

But there he was, a hood pulled over his head, on top of that crate, with his cat and his guitar, and his heart on his sleeve, with that same raw voice that was now nothing more than a grating noise to you. He did not sing about the boy he waited for, the one he found, and the one he fell in love with. Instead, he sang about the boy who shot him, not through the head, but through the heart, and how he took every part of him and smashed it into a thousand tiny pieces. But most surprisingly, he sang about the boy like he loved him more than anything in the world. His words made your fists curl, your teeth grit, and your lips tremble. You wanted to break every one of his fingers so that he couldn’t play, you wanted to wrap your hands tightly around his throat and take his voice away.

 _The tenth time_ , you weren’t there.

At least, not physically. This time you approached him. You had no coins to give, but you knelt in front of him and watched him play. You loved the way he plucked and stroked the strings of his decrepit guitar, so gently and lovingly like the way he touched you and held you in his arms. You reached out, ran your fingers along his cheek, memorising every line and contour of his face.

You were the sunshine and the rain, and he was the sky. He would always be there, but you were fleeting. In the end, fate played you, and yet you knew you did the right thing. You thought about how his eyes never left yours even as the shutter fell. His voice was the last thing you heard before a bullet pierced your chest. You knew you would rather someone as kind and honest as him lived and continued to share his voice with the world than someone like you.

You moved to sit by him and leaned against the wall, you closed your eyes and listened. He sang about the boy who saved him, how he wished you could have met a few years earlier, and his regret for not being able to save you... but most of all, he sang about your smile and how he bottled it up and kept it by his bedside table, lulling him to sleep, the one part of you he will never forget.

You looked up at him, caught the tears falling from his eyes, and in a broken voice, softly and slowly, you sang along with him. Your voices became one as you sang the same three words over and over until you were ready to walk into the light. And just like that, you left the boy you loved, sitting on a crate, a cat by his foot and his old guitar, in the corner of Shibuya’s underground, singing about how you saved his heart.

And how he would always love you.


End file.
